Thistles
by Lee Savage
Summary: Post-finale. Noalok. Promises. Every new day brings promises. Tarrlok wonders what he should do to celebrate each and every one Noatak breaks.


Warning: A man sticks his brother's genitalia inside of his mouth. If the previous sentence just offended you, please do not continue further.

* * *

Tarrlok spends most of his days of recuperation begging for the surrounding healers to let him die. They peruse the bookshelves, the floor, their herbal supplies, anything but him after they've done everything they can. He refuses to speak to his brother. They've betrayed each other too many times.

Refuses, yes, but Noatak has never cared for his wishes. "Brother, I'll never leave you again."

"Pity," Tarrlok says with a sneer, the sheets of his bed stained with blood. "Is that supposed to be an incentive for me to keep living?" Tarrlok is covered in bandages; he knots the sheets around his fingers.

Everything hurts. Noatak can sometimes hardly walk in the mornings. The pain bubbles through his muscles as if he has magma coursing through them, like there are fleshy sacks of it bursting at uneven intervals in his lungs. Corrosive, melting his insides.

Noatak's expression stretches the scar tissue that dapples the contour of his cheek. He can't complain. It's a mark of fate. A reminder.

* * *

The brothers' new home suits them. It's a place by the sea, a world of storms. Rain and thunder. The village is on the bleary edge of a set of untamed woods. The residents have foggy faces like dough. Unsculpted, dim.

They sleep in separate beds. Tarrlok's is made for two. When they were boys and a snowstorm ravaged the landscape, he would run to Noatak and climb into bed with him, sneaking so that Yakone wouldn't hear him. It was innocuous. They'd been brothers then, bound by more than blood. They are strangers now. They can feel each other's presence, even when Tarrlok's gift has been yanked from him.

Promises. Every new day brings promises. Tarrlok wonders what he should do to celebrate each and every one Noatak breaks.

During the morning, when the grayness of the half-formed day sifts through the mildewed kitchen curtains, they stand to face each other. Noatak lifts his hands and rests them on Tarrlok's cheeks. His brother flinches, and rare tears almost fill Noatak's eyes as he presses the ruined flesh of the right side.

"So, was the slander true?" Tarrlok says accusingly. "Do you want to skewer your own brother like you did your second-in-command?"

His brother replies gruffly, a smile suddenly gracing his features, "I've always been a man of equal opportunity."

His nose on Tarrlok's in a Water Tribe kiss, he inhales sharply. He's so close and _alive_. After all of the death and despair, they're here. Not seas apart, not severed through political ties. They've survived. They've thwarted their father, the red string of destiny seeking to choke them.

"You are _disturbed_. When I stated that you are a pain in my rear, that is most certainly not what I had in mind." Pulling away as if bitten, Tarrlok regards his brother without emotion, though his pulse had raced underneath Noatak's thumb, the blood reaching out frantically to crawl out of his twisted skin. "You're deranged. Mad."

"And disturbed. Yes, we've covered that, my darling brother."

* * *

Indeed, when Tarrlok would get frightened as a child, he'd run to Noatak. Tonight, things are different. There is no predatory gleam in his eyes as Noatak looms in the doorway. The floor creaks beneath him as he goes to the bed, and Tarrlok startles awake. Wind rattles the shutters.

Splendid.

The bed dips. Noatak's breathing is steady, and he merely gazes at his brother's visage. What must he see? Evidence of triumph—now that he has broken his baby brother again? Whenever Tarrlok grooms himself, his heart always stops a moment before he looks into the mirror.

Good. Anything else, and the despair will consume him.

No doubt Noatak has no such troubles. He suffers quite badly as well, yet he utters nothing about his scars. Doesn't even grimace.

Noatak leans above him, one knee over Tarrlok's leg, the one on the side of his body where Tarrlok doesn't need to struggle for control because the nerves haven't been fried. Their foreheads touch. Tarrlok inhales his brother's scent. It's medicinal herbs and dew. There's no light except for the little beams trickling from the moon.

"You've ruined me," Tarrlok says curtly. "You've ruined everything I worked for."

The scant air between them doesn't melt into poison. Tarrlok is almost nude under the sheets. The fabric of his brother's shirt scratches lightly against his collarbone. "I know," Noatak says, his voice holding no ire. Tarrlok can't tell if his brother feels remorse or merely pretends to act regretful so his brother won't abandon him.

Like Tarrlok could ever leave him.

Noatak lifts his head. His lips graze Tarrlok's temple, and—augh, no. There should be none of that. They are brothers. Months ago, he was a man of prestige. The man before him—above him—is no such thing. He's a criminal. A deceptive, uneducated criminal. They're tied by blood, and yet there's this unspoken tension between them. It's more than indignation, and it's sick, sick, sick.

Tarrlok says, "You've hurt everyone who has ever believed in you."

Yet who will ever know? Tarrlok is accustomed to hiding his skeletons, but the figurative closet door has been torn from its hinges, all of the secrets split at the head.

"I know." His brother's voice is muffled in Tarrlok's hair, the little bit that had not been singed away in the explosion. They've never openly discussed that incident.

"I can't even die to get away from you." Apparently, their blood tie does not only transcend comfort boundaries and societal norms, but a fitful sleep as well.

Sorrowfully, Noatak says, "I know." Tarrlok wants to crawl out of his skin. Not out of monumental disgust, but shock at how he isn't willing to push Noatak off and move away.

They've been so alone, and they can never share their connection with another soul. They will be intertwined with their lies and secrets, and that knowledge is a bond forged in dirt and fire, but it's the closest thing each of them will ever have to true understanding. Images only they can conjure. Shared trauma.

Yes, yes, how moving it all is. He says nothing as Noatak hands roam along his skin, pushing the covers back.

"Fate has been good to us, can't you see that?"

"How?" Tarrlok snaps. "I'm in no mood for your manipulations."

Noatak grimaces against his neck. "We could've died—"

"I don't want to hear it."

"—but I can make it all up to you." There's that undertone again, and Tarrlok knows that he should resist, but this may be the only true, honest point of their brothership, and that's far more bluntness than he's allowed in any past commitments.

"No, Noatak. There's nothing you can do." Tarrlok tries to control his breathing as Noatak travels lower, his insistent clutching and grasping becoming more invasive.

And soon it's anything but innocuous. Perhaps it's still two lost souls coping with the warmth of one another. Tarrlok presses his hand into the sheets as Noatak hair settles on his belly, as he soon teases Tarrlok with hands and lips. His wet, insistent caresses are gentle.

Desire colliding within his mind and shattering it at the behest of Noatak's ministrations, he can no longer dwell on his shame. It'll stay with him for the rest of his life, so why not have a reprieve?

* * *

When the next winter comes, Noatak grows ill. Tarrlok isn't quite used to being a caretaker. Both of them have led solitary lives. He feeds Noatak broth, washes the vomit out of his hair, which has grown out, and learns how to cope with only one hand and a leg mangled.

They don't discuss labels. Brothers, lovers, it doesn't matter. They are Tarrlok and Noatak. Disgraced, blank shells, crushed into the sand and sifting through it listlessly. One day, perhaps the sand will erode and reveal something marvelous.

"Don't look at me," Tarrlok says coarsely, wiping the sweat off of Noatak's forehead with a cloth. That night sticks with him like a grotesque parasite that thrives on his misery and humiliation. A very thick leech-maggot, that one. He's repulsed at Noatak for doing such a thing and nonchalantly continuing on.

And so Noatak closes his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Yes," Tarrlok replies coldly, "I know."


End file.
